


Count Them All

by Sheepnamedpig



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Omniscient!Mycroft, Pre-Slash, Sad!John, Sherlock is a crappy best friend, Un-Happy Birthday
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-23
Updated: 2012-07-23
Packaged: 2017-11-10 13:15:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/466703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sheepnamedpig/pseuds/Sheepnamedpig
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Happy birthday, John.”</p>
<p>“You know, you’re the first person to say that to me today.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Count Them All

**Author's Note:**

> For a prompt. That I lost.
> 
> Unbeta'd

There’s a moth fluttering around the streetlamp across from John’s park bench. He watches it flutter in and out of sight, hands stuffed deep into his pockets to keep from looking at his watch. He’s got a good enough sense of time to know that it’s twenty-five to midnight.

Sitting out alone on a park bench this late at night probably isn’t very safe, but John is too busy trying not to feel stupid for feeling sorry for himself to be worried. And besides, he’s competent enough to handle most of London’s petty criminals and a fair portion of the not-so-petty criminals, especially if they try to kidnap him. He’s gotten quite good at untying knots he can’t see.

Twenty-three to midnight. He wonders what his parents would do if they could see him now. Probably fold him up into one of their big, embarrassing hugs, ruffle his hair, and coo at him. He misses them fiercely in that moment and wishes Harry had called him today so that he could tell her that he’d never blamed her for being the only survivor of the crash and that he hadn’t meant it when he’d said he did.

He watches the moth and someone sits next to him on the bench. John doesn’t look. He doesn’t need to.

“Good evening, John.”

John won’t look. He doesn’t know why. “Mycroft.”

They sit in silence. He watches the moth and Mycroft watches him.

“Happy birthday, John.”

John _won’t_ look. His jaw clenches before he speaks.

“You know, you’re the first person to say that to me today.”

“I know.”

“Do you?” It comes out much flatter than a question ought to. In his pockets, his fists briefly clench tighter. There’s a pause before Mycroft speaks again.

“If it helps, they all had reasons.”

“Did they?” he snaps. It’s loud in the silence of the park and he immediately regrets it. It’s such a stupid thing to get upset over, but it makes him feel small and lonely and forgotten.

“I can list them all for you, if you like.”

John snorts and opens his mouth to say, “Go for it,” but something niggles in the back of his brain.

_I can list them all for you, if you like._

John looks. Mycroft’s face is mostly cast into black shadow, but what John can see is all openness, a contrast to his usual impenetrable masks.

_I can list them all for you, if you like._

There’s research and then there’s _that_ , and John thinks he should be a little more disturbed at how flattered he feels that Mycroft would go that far for his sake. He snorts again and looks back at the moth. There are two, all of a sudden. His fists relax and the slats of the bench are suddenly more comfortable against his back.

“Don’t bother.” He goes back to watching the moths and Mycroft’s gaze drifts away from John.

Eighteen(-ish) minutes, and John blurts, “Are they good reasons?”

“Some are, others not so much.”

“And Sherlock’s?”

“Sherlock’s falls into the realm of ‘stupid’.”

Mycroft says ‘stupid’ the way John has only ever heard nine year-old boys say it when talking about their female counterparts. John looks back at him, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. Though, knowing Mycroft, he probably hasn't said the word 'stupid' since he was a nine year-old anyways.

“Oh?” he prompts. Mycroft is staring straight ahead, something suspiciously pout-like pulling at his lips.

“Sherlock insists that birthdates are useless bits of information and deliberately forgets them. I have had to remind him every year of our own mother’s birthday since he was sixteen, and the one year I neglected to do so, _I_ was the one who got yelled at for Sherlock not remembering.”

John can’t hold in his chuckle and Mycroft glances at him without turning his head. Another moment of silence settles between them.

It’s fourteen (maybe) minutes to midnight when John finally asks, “Why are you here, Mycroft?”

“To ask you to join me for dinner.”

“What for?”

Mycroft gives him a speculative look. “Your birthday.”

John is honestly surprised and embarrassed by it. “A bit late though, isn’t it?” he mumbles.

“Unfortunately, my work ran late.”

John looks at Mycroft again. The pout is still there. “Seriously?”

“The problems created by incompetence,” Mycroft states crisply, “are only ever exacerbated by time zones.”

John nods in pseudo-understanding and stands up, a little stiff from sitting in the cold. The night air is pleasantly cool against his hand when he holds it out to Mycroft, who blinks at it.

“We’d better hurry if you want to make it before my birthday ends.”

Mycroft smirks. His fingers are cold when John pulls him up off the bench, but they gradually warm up in John’s grasp.


End file.
